


Apprehension

by RubyBelle



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dubious Consent, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyBelle/pseuds/RubyBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock comes back for his belt, and Seth tries to appease him. Seth is really bad at appeasing people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apprehension

**Author's Note:**

> idk what happened here either

The music hasn't stopped blaring before Seth is sprinting backstage, nearly knocking techies and equipment over in his panic. The moment he knew the cameras were off him, when the audience wasn't looking at him anymore, when he couldn't be judged by people who didn't know a damn thing anymore, he's gone, sweating through his clothes, trying to keep his lunch down. 

Anyone who has even half a brain is terrified of Brock Lesnar, that freak of nature. That monster can rip screws out of foundations, crumble empires with his bad moods, doing something like tearing Seth apart won't even be a warm up. Seth used to think that he had Brock beat out in a couple of areas — speaking, speed, smarts — but coming face to face with him, staring that animal in the eyes... Seth wonders if stealing a title belt is enough to enter Witness Protection.

After a couple of corners turned, Seth is finally in his dressing room, back pressed against his door, chest heaving. He's finally alone, the silence he'd hoped for giving way to a loud ringing in his ears, the background to his heart thudding wildly. He's safe enough for now.

He hadn't exactly conferred with the Authority before he'd pulled that stunt at Wrestlemania. It's not that he thought they wouldn't give him permission, but sometimes it feels as if Hunter and Stephanie never really _truly_ believe in him. They might speak about how much they love him, how special and important he is to WWE, but when push came to shove, they kept feeding him to Dean Ambrose, Randy Orton, guys who had inconsequential grudges and wouldn't mean anything after Seth became Champion.

Therefore, he doesn't have a back up plan for — for _this_. This _exact_ situation. Seth groans, sliding down the door until he's seated on the floor, trying to ignore how shaky his knees are. With all the excitement he had never even once considered what he'd do once Brock came back, all power and unbridled anger. And, apparently, neither has Stephanie nor Hunter.

He waits for a very long time before getting back up, steadying himself against the door. He heard a lot of talking from outside his door subside to nothing, until the ringing in his ears turns into eerie silence, dead, devoid, lonely. No one knocked on his door, no one tried the door knob, and a quick inspection of his cell phone showed that no one called, either. Only one text from Hunter, a short " _ **we'll talk tomorrow**_ ".

Seth doesn't reply, he just locks his phone and tries to steady his hand.

So, he's alone in this, huh? He hadn't exactly _expected_ as much, but Seth can't say he's particularly surprised. The ones who had brought that brute out there in first place had been the ones who were so quick to laud or criticize him.

He dresses quickly, not bothering to shower or spend any more time than necessary in the stadium. On the way out, Seth makes sure he has his sweater's hood up and keeps head low, on high alert for any leviathan bellows in the distance. His belt is in his bag with his workout gear — worst comes to worst, he'll drop his luggage and run screaming all the way home.

He hasn't finished turning the corner before he sees his absolute worst nightmare pacing back and forth, footsteps echoing in the desolate hallway, like a mad dog. Somewhere in the back of Seth's head, he can hear Paul Heyman's legendary introduction. 

And when the Beast Incarnate sees him, that bastard fucking smiles, but it's less of a smile and more of him baring his teeth at Seth's shivering frame. Seth wants to walk back the way he came, to keep his face steady, to call his mom and ask if she'll pick him up, but all his body manages to do is stiffen up like he's already dead. 

Brock hasn't changed his clothes since the encounter, in fact, he's even worked up a sweat. Warming himself up to commit mass murder? Seth won't put it past him. His stomps feel like earthquakes in Seth's bones, and before the Champ knows it, the colossus has gotten inches from him, still fucking smiling.

The feeling of stone pressed against Seth's head is a surprise, and he realizes quickly that his legs had indeed started working, just enough to back him up against a wall, with nowhere to run. When he swallows, it feels like knives going down his throat, and Seth looks frantically for somewhere to look that isn't Brock's eyes. The last thing he wants to do is to make him think that Seth actually _wants_ a fight.

"Hello," Seth says, and his response is the complete wipe of any sense of mirth from Brock's red, sweaty face.

"You've got something I want, Rollins."

The question of when the last time Seth went to the restroom runs through his mind, and he tries to force a smile, something that isn't snide or terrified. "Brock, man, we both know—"

The deafening bang in his ear sounds like an honest-to-God gunshot. Seth's actually scared, _petrified_ , to turn his head, to see what damage has been caused to the wall next to his head, fucking inches away from his face. Brock's knuckles are red when he withdraws them, but not bleeding or busted, but, then again, that doesn't mean anything when he's made out of something much tougher than steel, than Seth, than anyone and anything.

"I don't give a shit."

"L-let's just talk about this," Seth pleads, hearing how childish his voice sounds. At least it isn't near tears — he hopes. "C'mon, you know that changing titles behind closed doors isn't good for anyone's bottom line."

Brock levels his gaze, an intense pressure that makes Seth's fingers tremble. "I don't," he repeats slowly, the words heavy and painful, "give a shit."

"Hunter," Seth gasps out, desperately grabbing at straws. "won't acknowledge you as the Champ if you hurt me now. You might get fired — you know you're on thin ice — I'm just looking for what's best for the both of us."

"No, you're looking for what route leaves you with the most teeth still in your mouth," Brock says, his strange menacing smile back.

Seth can't really refute, but that's a stupid idea, anyway. He tries to smile back, but his cheeks suddenly go numb, so instead he just focuses on letting out a semi-normal laugh, something that can be misunderstood as trying to lighten the mood.

Finally, _finally_ , Brock backs up, giving Seth more than two inches of space to breathe. When he speaks, Brock's voice is light like how his steps are light. "I'll murder you in front of a live studio audience, Rollins."

He turns and leaves Seth alone, then, stalking back to whatever entrance from Hell he came from. Seth feels his knees give once more, and he slides down the wall, gasping for air, wondering if anyone would come if he called.

\---

It takes Seth an embarrassingly long amount of time to get feeling back in his extremities, and even longer to finally make it back to his hotel. It's like he's seven again, and the boogeyman is real, _very_ real, and it wants his head on a platter. Every corner and dark space is a threat, a promise of something much worse waiting for him in the ring.

You don't just make enemies with Brock Lesnar. This isn't just a disagreement, or some little misunderstanding. This isn't a company-sanctioned feud. When you get on the wrong side of Brock Lesnar, you get put on a shit list, one that you can't get off of until he's covered in your blood and you're out of business. And that is _exactly_ what Seth has done.

In Seth's hotel room, he begins his planning. Plan A clearly failed, now for B.

What the fuck is Plan B?

With Hunter, Plan A is a calm discussion with a lot of arm twisting, and Plan B usually involves a sledgehammer in some form. But Seth doesn't have a sledgehammer, plus he's pretty sure it won't do anything against Brock's carapace, anyway.

He stares at the carpet, at his bare feet, his knees, his legs, his body. The last time he's done this was with Randy. Before Extreme Rules. Or was it Payback? He'd gotten on his knees and begged for mercy — Seth isn't necessarily adverse to doing that again, now, but Brock doesn't seem like the kind of man who would go any easier on a coward. He's done this with Kane, too, hasn't he? But, with Kane, he hadn't gone quite as far as with Randy.

Seth rubs his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. This probably isn't going to work out. No, this _definitely i_ sn't going to work out. But, he doesn't have any other choice.

The front desk worker knows him from TV, so she has no issue giving him the number of his colleague's room in exchange for a signature Seth hopes doesn't look as unsteady as he feels.

Brock is on a higher floor than him, in a much better suite. That makes sense, Seth thinks, since Brock probably pays for all of his own travel expenses. He sees matches as a paycheck, any long-term association with the company as some sort of poison, and, as such, does as much as he can to distance himself. This is the best hotel in the city, the one only available to WWE's execs and their favorites. The comfort from that isn't enough to help Seth's stomach from tossing and turning in the elevator ride up.

Seth doesn't know exactly what he's in for, but he has at least an inkling. It's not like Hunter _doesn't_ use Seth's body as a bargaining chip more often than not, so he knows at least a little of what his night can end up looking like. Either way, Seth's pretty sure he won't be able to make it back to his room by himself, at least not easily. Ever since Jimmy and Joey left, he doesn't exactly have someone to call when he does stupidly dangerous situations like this, but Hunter is his most called contact in his phone, so it shouldn't be _that_ hard to get an SOS out, right? He had even texted him before he headed for Brock's room, nothing too concerning, just a, " _ **can we talk later tonight?**_ " That seems pretty reasonable, right? Hunter will be there for him, right?

He keeps telling himself that when he knocks on the door, gritting his teeth so tight, his head aches.

It takes a long time. Seth knocks again, shifting his weight from leg to leg, his hands deep in his jeans pockets. He considers knocking again, or going back to his own room and calling, or maybe just saying fuck it and driving back to Iowa, but he stays, as still as his anxious body will let him. He tries not to think about — anything, really.

The door cracks open, the chain lock still connected, Brock's annoyed face examining Seth. "What do you want, Rollins?" he asks, and Seth is endlessly relieved for some reason.

He swallows twice before speaking. "J-just to talk," he says, feeling his voice falter a little. Brock's expression remains unchanged. "I'm alone, I just... Can I come in?"

Brock laughs, and Seth almost shits himself. "Why?"

He doesn't exactly sound _angry_ , which doesn't really mean much, but it's definitely a start. It's more of an amused tone, like an adult speaking to a kid who thinks he can be President of The World.

Seth raises his hands, like a criminal to a cop, hoping he wasn't shaking. "I just want to talk."

Brock doesn't look away for a long time, leaving Seth standing there with his hands in the air, biting the inside of his cheek, anxious, scared, regretful. Eventually, he shrugs, the small motion huge on his immense frame, and unlocks the door, letting Seth in. "This better be quick."

Seth prays that it won't be much longer than an hour, and he walks into the room carefully, wondering how to be as respectful as possible. He closes the door behind him with a loud click, watching Brock walk to the center of his huge hotel room and stand, waiting for him. He's shirtless, barefoot, wearing sweatpants that hung from his thick waist, his massive arms crossed across his massive chest. Even so, Seth still feels completely underprepared, despite him wearing more clothes than even what he gets into the ring with.

"Talk," Brock demands, watching Seth avoid him.

Seth takes a moment to lick his lips, thinking about what he was about to do. "Look," he starts, then gives up, sighing in frustration. He runs a hand through his hair and stares at Brock's feet, his stomach churning. This is never easy, despite the fact that, since becoming the Authority's golden boy, he's done this pretty often. Brock stays silent.

He walks closer to Brock, carefully, shoulders hunched, every nerve in his body alert. He watches Brock's muscle tense under his skin, his mouth twist into a sneer of annoyance, and Seth suddenly goes from nervous to hysterical, desperate.

"I — I'll do anything," the words don't sound right. Nothing seems right. "Please, Brock, listen, I want us to — to come to an understanding."

Seth isn't stupid. He knows what that look in Brock's eyes mean. He's seen it before, crazed and dedicated, _obsessed_ , and Seth's cell phone feels heavy in his pocket. One wrong move and it's just a couple presses of a button to get at least a voicemail into Hunter's inbox. Not that he'll care, he'll probably listen to it only hours later, when Seth has already been used until his body gave out. _Here lies Seth Rollins_ , he thinks, the image of a tombstone flashing in his head, _He died as he lived: a fucking idiot._

Brock wastes no time in grabbing Seth by his neck, his huge hand almost wrapping entirely around it. He doesn't squeeze, not really, just grabs ahold of him, but Seth's hands scramble up to Brock's stiff arm regardless.

"Understand _what_ , Rollins?" his voice is hot, scalding, painful. His grip remains steady but Seth feels himself losing air anyway. "What the fuck could you say to me that wouldn't make me want to smash your fucking face in?"

Seth hears a loud hiss, but is unsure of where it came from. Maybe he had sucked air in through his teeth, maybe his lungs had finally popped — Seth is really good at making bad decisions. He and Brock are so close, the beast's skin feels like fire against him, his presence a threat.

Seth doesn't know what to do, so he just keeps speaking. "Please, please, listen, please," he begs, knowing full well it's a mistake, that _everything's_ a mistake. "Let me explain myself, please, just, please."

"I'm fucking tired of listening to you talk."

The grip on Seth's neck tightens, but it's quick, being picked up and slammed onto the bed behind him. He's thrown away — simple as that. Brock shakes his hand, Seth can see the marks his nails left behind on his forearm, and he wonders how many more punches that means he'll take in the ring.

"I won't rip your guts out if you leave now," Brock says, and there's that smile again. "I'm bein' courteous."

"What will make you listen to me?" Seth blurts out, ignoring every instinct in his body telling him to get the fuck out of that hotel room, out of that fucking _state_. "I'll do _anything_."

He knows full well that Brock isn't going to listen to a word he had to say, and even if he does, that none of it will be committed to memory. He's fighting a losing battle. But, when Brock looks him over carefully, not clenching his fists, Seth gets just that tiny bit of hope that _maybe_ he can get Brock to at least leave his limbs attached after their match.

"What are you working at?" he asks, voice lower and much more calm than before. "What is Triple H trying to make you slip me?"

"Nothing," the word is out of Seth's mouth before he can breathe. "Nothing, Brock, absolutely nothing, I just want to —  to talk to you."

"You do this often?" he asks, setting everything in Seth's mind on fire. "How often you come to guy's rooms, Rollins?"

Seth shakes his head, his mouth open, but not making any words. There's no mic in his hand, no Hunter behind him, no audience as witnesses, no fucking _kneepads_ , nothing to distance himself, protect himself, no insulation from what he says and does. As Brock stalks closer to him, Seth scrambles back on the bed, hitting the headboard.

"Y'know, I heard about this," Brock speaks like a lion to a mouse, a shivering, whimpering mouse. "I thought those idiots in the locker room were just lyin', jealous 'n shit, but I wonder if they're tellin' the truth."

His hand grabs Seth's hair, twists and pulls it, and Seth bends to his will with a grunt of pain. "You wanna make me listen, Rollins? I'll consider it if I see you on your knees."

The words are like a bucket of ice dousing Seth, making his fingers go numb and his heart stutter. He hadn't thought it would go this way — he hadn't _wanted_ it to go this way, but he is completely out of wants, so he crawls off the bed and drops to his knees in front of Brock, obedient. He's ready to do near anything Brock wants, and he hope Hunter won't be too mad tomorrow morning when he can't get out of bed by himself.

Brock's hand is still in his hair, tight, controlling. Seth gulps visibly, sitting back on his heels, resting his hands on his knees. He's used to this position, at least. It's the little things.

"A-anything else?" Seth asks. He almost worries it's too straightforward, too disrespectful, cheeky, impertinent, but Brock's smile is back, and his belly shakes as he laughs.

"You really are a dog," he says, and Seth feels his face burn white hot. "You're really willing to do whatever I say, huh?"

Seth doesn't know if he's allowed to speak, so he nods, careful, trying not to pull too much away from Brock's hand grasping his hair.

Brock looks around the room, as if to find something to make Seth do for him.

It isn't like this was new to Seth. It stopped being surprising how often the men he meets late at night for negotiation would only even consider bending once Seth acted like a dog. A couple had stranger demands, and only very few had something they wanted that Seth genuinely didn't know if he could do, but something he at least had down was getting on his hands and knees. Brock doesn't seem like the kind to ask Seth to do something dangerous, he seems too vanilla for that, so Seth steels himself in preparation to do whatever his temporary master expects.

A sudden yank on Seth's hair has him stumbling over, falling off his knees and onto his hands. "Get up," Brock orders. "I don't have a leash so your greasy hair will have to do."

 _It's water,_ Seth wants to say, _not oil_ , but he knows much better than to even pretend he has something to say. Brock pulls again, uncaring, and Seth follows along on his hands and knees, subservient and desperate. 

Brock leads him to the middle of the room, where there's nothing in the way, and nothing to hold on to, and stops, still looking around carefully, as if waiting for something. Seth wants to tell him that Hunter won't be interfering, that, in fact, Hunter doesn't even know Seth is doing this, but before he can, Brock lets go of his hair and turns around to face Seth. Well, Seth is facing his knees, but he cranes his neck up to watch Brock's face when he speaks.

"I want you to bark," he says, which actually relieves Seth. He was expecting something much worse.

The first time Seth had gotten this request, he hadn't been able to choke down his pride and got punished for it. The second time he was quicker; by the fifth, he had already begun practicing in the safety of his own hotel room. He squeezes his eyes shut — that always helps — and barks, quick and sharp, balling his hands up into fists and trying to ignore everything.

Brock starts laughing, which is... new, but not. A couple of people laugh, but Seth has never heard something this genuine from Brock, something that isn't scornful or fake. His face goes hot from shame, and he lowers his head, so that when he opens his eyes again, he can stare at the titan's feet instead of his taunting face.

Another quick pull on his hair jerks Seth's attention up from the ground back to almost the ceiling, to Brock's incredulous smile, mocking, hot, strong. Seth averts his eyes, but keeps his head still, not wanting to pull against Brock's lead.

Quickly, he lets go, and walks backwards slowly, shaking his head while he speaks. "Guess I should call you a good boy."

Brock sits down on the corner of the bed, that stupid look still on his face, and the motherfucker almost looks happy. A big enough part of Seth wants to complain, yell, talk back, but the rest of him knows how terrible an idea that is. Brock isn't Hunter, his punishment won't be just, nor will it be particularly sane. So he stays on his hands and knees, looking anywhere but Brock's face, feeling his heart beat.

"How often have you done this?" Brock's voice is impossibly careless, almost like he thinks this wasn't really happening. Seth wishes as much.

He doesn't answer right away. He doesn't know what to say, how much is too much, or too little, or what will anger Brock or not. Seth doesn't move, he just stays still, wishing this will all end alright.

"Rollins," Brock's tone of voice is — commanding, scolding, the same tone of voice Seth used on his own dog when he isn't behaving. "You answer me when I speak."

Seth's dumb, but not _that_ dumb, so he chokes out his response. "A-at least twice this year."

Brock leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, lightly entwining his hands. "With who?"

Confidentiality agreements, contracts, handshakes, whispers behind backs, and Hunter's cruel smile run through Seth's mind. He prevents himself from biting his tongue. "Randy Orton and Kane."

Seth looks up at Brock, very quickly, almost scared of the repercussion, but Brock's face, red and hot, is enough of an answer for him. He's getting into this, which is terrifying in its own right, but holds more positive outcomes than negative in Seth's mind. Usually, after a round or two, guys are too exhausted to really think critically, which is the perfect time for Seth to get them to agree to something. So all Seth has to do right now is play along, whatever that means.

"What did they," Brock's voice is even more obvious than his face, "make you do?"

If there's a temperature hotter than fire, then that's Seth's face. He looks away before he speaks. "Kane, he just wanted..." he trails off, not knowing what to say, not knowing which one of Kane's demands will be the one to turn Brock on. Though it had certainly started off small, with office help and the like, by the end, Hunter had to give Kane an excuse just to let the welts left on Seth's backside heal. "Small things."

There's a chuckle, but it's heavy, loaded with things other than amusement. "What about Orton? Guy's a maniac."

Seth has to look down. He doesn't have it in him to look at Brock while he talks, while he remembers the look on Randy's face, the feeling of his hands all over him, the searing heat of flesh on flesh. He doesn't regret it, not even a bit, but something about admitting he sold his ass in exchange for a couple of pulled punches to Brock fucking Lesnar while on his goddamn hands and knees makes Seth want to curl up and die.

"He wanted a little more," is all he can get out articulately.

Brock is absolutely relentless. "How much more?"

Seth doesn't answer, doesn't budge, doesn't do anything other than squeeze his eyes shut and wish Hunter had been more of a help.

"Rollins, either you tell me, or I make you show me."

Now _this_ is something Seth knows how to do. He flubbed his lines even when Hunter fed them to him from off camera, there's no way he'll be able to list all the things he and Randy did in front of Brock without making him angry in some way. But action, Seth knows how to take action, even if it frequently backfires on him.

He crawls over to Brock, still seated with his elbows on his knees, his legs apart, his hands tight, and Seth rests his chin on one of his forearms. To his credit, Brock doesn't flinch, he just watchs Seth with a growing fire deep in his gut, flaring up in his eyes, giving him that manic look from before. Seth swallows before trying to speak.

"I," his heart thudding in his throat makes Seth pause before he tries to speak again. "I can show you."

He doesn't wait for permission before he gets on his knees, pushing Brock's arms away, which is shockingly easy — but, then again, he should expect that, even if just from the look on Brock's face, which is a wild thrill Seth hasn't seen on him since Wrestlemania 30. His dick is already hard, bulging in his sweatpants, and Seth wonders why he hadn't noticed earlier. Maybe he did, but he was too scared, or focused, or maybe he didn't because Brock has been doing a very good job at keeping his heterosexuality intact.

Seth rubs the ache between Brock's legs, feeling his own gut heat up, his own legs clenching from his blood rushing downwards. Brock lets out a sort of laugh, but he doesn't do anything, not even moving his legs an inch when Seth leans down to mouth him through his clothes. Seth can feel it throbbing, feel its girth, and he worries for a moment about how he'll get it all inside him. The thought makes his thighs tremble.

He grabs the band of Brock's sweatpants, hooking his fingers under the elastic of his underwear, and pulls down, releasing Brock's huge cock from its bindings. And huge it is, because Seth mentally compares it to Roman's and Hunter's, and this has them beat by at least a half-inch in girth. Length, he doesn't know, since it doesn't seem completely hard. He goes down again, to suckle at the head.

And there's that sharp pain again. Brock grabs him by his hair, all of the blonde, and yanks his head back and up, until Seth almost lifts up from the ground. He can't stop himself from letting out a yelp, and has to grab Brock's knees to steady himself from falling.

"Rollins, I didn't give you permission for that," Brock rasps out, his breathing labored. "You're playing by my rules."

"I'm sorry," Seth squeaks, feeling his face twist into a grimace. "I'm sorry, Brock, I'm so sorry."

"I know what I want to make you do," Brock's face is not a pleasant one, his smile is not one born from lighthearted emotions. "Get back on your knees, with your hands behind your back."

He lets go of Seth's hair, sending him tumbling down onto his back. Seth knows his own arousal is apparent through his jeans, it _has_ to be, but this isn't about what Seth desires. He does as Brock says, sitting back on his heels again, keeping his arms crossed tight behind his back.

Brock watches him casually. When Seth finally adjusts himself to Brock's liking, he stands up, his half-hard dick still out, and grabs Seth by his hair again. "Open," he says, and Seth obeys, opening his mouth as wide as he can.

He pinches Seth's nose closed with his forefinger and middle finger's middle knuckles, tilting his head up slightly, just enough to have Seth watch Brock snicker at him.

"You better not have a gag reflex, boy," he says, and he pushes Seth's head towards him, shoving his dick into his mouth.

Seth's hands scrambles — the first four inches were easy, but however fucking many else are going too fast, too deep, his chest starts to heave, searching for air that he can't intake. His hands grab Brock's thighs, his pants, twisting the cloth into his fists, looking for something.

Brock finally lets go of his nose just to use his free hand to punch Seth on the top of his head. "I told you to fucking keep your hands behind your back," he bellows, and Seth obeys again, feeling his eyes prickle with tears.

"There's still some left," Brock announces, and Seth's increased nasally breathing must be enough of an answer for him. "Take it all down and I'll give you a treat."

Of course Brock isn't delicate; Seth knows that. But the feeling of the head of Brock's cock pressing against the back of his throat, almost like it was fucking going _down_ his throat, that isn't something he expected to happen so suddenly. He doesn't know how long his body will let him keep it there before he throws up, his gag reflex can only take so much.

When his nose is pressed up against Brock's pelvis, he looks up, tears blurring his vision, desperate for some sort of direction. Brock said — he said 'treat', what fucking treat is he going to give him? Allowing Seth to keep his jawbone intact?

"There you go, whatta good boy you are, Seth," the sound of his first name in Brock's voice gives Seth goosebumps. "Let me give you a present, something no one else has ever been allowed to taste."

Seth only realizes what's going to happen right before it actually happens. Brock's huge cock is already so far down his throat that he can't taste any of it, but the steady stream of piss going down his throat and filling his stomach is unmistakable. His mind panics, suddenly wondering, is he going to drown?  What if it goes down the wrong hole? What the fuck is wrong with Brock? Were there signs he should've saw? What the fuck is he doing with his life? What should he do? _What the fuck_?

His dick doesn't care, though, because it almost feels like all the blood in Seth's body rushes down to his groin, making his breathing even more strained, ragged, affected. He tries to watch Brock's face, but it hurts to tilt his head even the tiny amount to look up, and the tears are turning everything into a cloudy mess. All he can do is wait for it to end.

Brock's satisfied sigh comes soon, the signal of his finish. He withdraws his dick from Seth's esophagus just as quick as he shoved it in. Seth keels over, coughing, gagging, retching, even though he doesn't fucking want to, and he shoves his hand over his mouth. He can't fucking throw up, not here, not now. And his dick is still fucking hard.

"Better not waste all those nutrients," Brock's laughter seems more distant than it probably is. Seth wonders if wishing death on a coworker is a bad thing. "If you throw all that up, I'll make you regret it."

So Seth stays on the ground, curled up, one hand on his stomach, wondering if the distended feeling he felt is in his mind or not, the other hand over his mouth, a last line of defense in case his body finally decides it has had enough. Hunter will definitely laugh when he hears about this. Seth wishes he could imagine Hunter getting angry, defensive over his boy, but he knows Hunter will think Human Toilet Seth is a great gimmick, something a niche target of his clients will trip over themselves to pay for. Seth's glad for the tears already in his eyes.

He doesn't know how long it takes for Brock to get tired of him, folded up on the ground, and grab him, of course, by the hair again. Seth stumbles to his knees, assumes the position, feeling drool and bile run down his chin and neck.

Brock watches him, evaluates him, and his lips cock into a smirk. "You did good."

"Are you —" Seth croaks out, his throat vehemently protesting the effort after the trauma it had just been put through. "Are you gonna listen to me talk now?"

Brock laughs, and Seth decides that he should've, out of everything that happened in this clusterfuck of a day, expected at least this. "Of course not."

Still holding onto Seth's hair, he throws him to the ground, Seth's body limp except for his stupid fucking hard on. Brock adjusts himself, shoving his cock back into his clothes while Seth tries to get back up, shaky, unstable, weak. When Seth eventually gets back to his feet, Brock just stands there, his arms folded, like nothing had happened.

"You can go now," he says, and Seth doesn't know if he has the energy to nod. "Goes without saying that if you tell anyone about this, I'll make sure your belt isn't the only thing I take from you."

It isn't so much of a nod as it is Seth just dropping his head to his chest, but that seems to be enough for Brock, who turns back to his bed and sits down, still watching Seth, arms still tight across his wide chest. Seth wobbles over to the door, unlocks it, opens it, leaves, all mechanical actions that he knows how to do even if his brain shuts itself off entirely.

A buzz in his pocket reminds Seth of his cell phone, something he had with him the whole time, a fucking escape route that he had either forgotten or chosen to ignore. He unlocks it, the movements practiced, repetitive, effortless, and sees a text back from Hunter.

_**everything alright?** _

The time stamp tells him that he had been in Brock's room for much less than he thought. He doesn't know how he feels about that.

Seth hears the door lock behind him. He types out and deletes his message three times before deciding on something and pressing send.

_**yeah, everything's cool** _


End file.
